


Duty's Demands

by TenkeyLess



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Happy Ending, Love for WoL is never straightforward, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Regency Romance, Requited Love, Speedrun Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkeyLess/pseuds/TenkeyLess
Summary: Hounded by every unattached individual in Ishgard, both noble and common alike, the warrior of light is quite fed up with her circumstance. Granted a chance to dissuade the lot at one of the never-ending balls of celebration, she throws herself on Ser Aymeric's mercy. By having him playact her paramour, she hopes to deter those ardent admirers nipping at her heels. The crux of the issue lies in the Lord Commander's unvoiced wishes for her attentions, himself. However, faced with the warrior of light's desperation, he swallows his affections and agrees to play the part.Duty and love conspire to make fools of all involved.A fantasy Regency Ishgard.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 9
Kudos: 58
Collections: Bookclub Winter Fic Exchange 2020





	Duty's Demands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seimaisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/gifts).



"Scads of suitors and another swarm of them biding their time and courage for tonight no doubt." Tataru's cutting commentary brings a smile to her friend's face. Attired for warmth rather than fashion, for once, the warrior of light lounges in Count Edmont's drawing room with a cup of hot chocolate between her hands. Steam massages her chilly cheeks, skin dry after a day spent fending off would-be suitors in the Ishgardian outdoors.

"The rogues guild could take pointers from them," the warrior grouses. "I was ambushed no fewer than three times in the crozier today."

"There there my dear. One day they'll get the point that Ishgard's hero is no winnable prize. That said, it would be a great deal easier to deter them if you had another at your elbow...?" Pink trimmed robes flutter as Tataru situates herself next to the warrior, a conspiratorial grin on her face. "You know you can confide in me, dear, if any of them _do_ catch your eye?"

"Tataru!" The warrior's mock indignant stare lasts all of a breath before they burst into giggles. The room lightens with their laughter, calling to memories of happy days spent within. Merriment fading to a sigh, the warrior sips from her chocolate, sweet to offset the bitterness of the night ahead.

"Tonight is sure to be more of the same, isn't it?"

"It shall, but take heart - this peace is worth celebrating and it wouldn't be here at all save for your hard work." The lalafell pauses for a respectful moment, patting her companion's shoulder reassuringly. A smile curves her lips as she remembers a tidbit to share, hopefully lightening the warrior's mood before she steps back into the strictured world of Ishgardian society. "You _may_ be interested to know, I have heard from reliable sources that the food tonight will be top notch."

The warrior chuckles, smiling at Tataru.

"I'll be sure to dodge towards the food displays then. Thank you, Tataru."  


* * *

" _Thank you_ , Tataru." The warrior mumbles behind her hand, mouth full of tiny cake. Suitors watch from every corner, barely leashed by propriety as they wait for the current set of dances to end. Her shoulders itch, eager to rise to her ears under the weight of their many stares. A flicker of brightest blue catches her eye at the edge of the dance floor. It would appear Ishgard's Lord Commander is partaking of the revelry. He glides smoothly across the dance floor, as assured in the ballroom as he is on the battlefield.

The music draws to a close, and the warrior can practically feel the suitors' collective indrawn breath as they _wait. Watching_. Eyes keen as any hunter on the field - she, their prey and the dance floor their grounds.

The dance happens to place Ser Aymeric near her as the music concludes, the last few bars fading into the gentle conversation pervading the room. Boots click as the suitors descend, their opportunity fleeting, and the warrior leaps away - leaps _forward_ into the arms of the Lord Commander.

"Ser Aymeric!"

Eyes the vibrant blue of cloudless sky turn to meet her, edges creasing in amusement at her determined approach. Lips, divinely carved, tilt up in a warm smile.

"My friend, tis good to see you." A question hovers in the air as he takes in her furrowed brow, her stiff shoulders. "Are you quite alright?"

"Dance with me." Curt, she sways into his space, claiming a gloved hand. The crowd of suitors pause, breath held at the sight of the warrior of light boldly holding the Lord Commander's hand. Glancing about at the many heads trained on the individual invading his space, realization dawns in the Commander's lifted brows.

"Ah."

His fingers wrap around hers, leading her confidently out to the center of the dance floor. Light, playful, the music's opening bars turn available feet to the ballroom's centerpiece - the dance floor's rich, gleaming wood polished by many feet and a painstakingly attentive staff. Placing his hands properly to lead, Aymeric inclines his head - an easy smile on his lips to have helped stymie the hunters at the warrior's heels.

"My apologies for not having found you sooner, dear friend, if you wished to be monopolized on the dance floor."

They ease into the music, following each other's cues effortlessly. Camaraderie built of trust on the battlefield lends their dancing an entrancing grace, captivating the many admirers waiting impatiently at the sidelines. Finally, the warrior relaxes, her stiffness melting away in the face of her friend's unquestioning support.

"Thank you, Ser Aymeric. Truly. Between these nightly balls and the unceasing callers at Manor Fortemps I scarce have a moment for myself."

His parted mouth closes, swallowing the words he had planned. Pined over, even, to the detriment of the scarce hours he claims for sleep. Putting his own suit forward at this time would be the height of foolhardiness. He will have better opportunities - tis not as though the warrior of light will abandon Ishgard, after all, though she may wish to flee the crowds of ardent admirers. A sour feeling curdles in his gut, that she be so pursued. That his rivals are legion. But, she is encircled in Borel blue, here, now. And that will have to do.

"My sympathies, that you be harried so."

A laugh is his reward, sweeter music than even the symphony surrounding them.

"Persistent as wolves after karakul the lot of them."

Waltzing carefully after gilded boots, Tataru's words float back to the fore of the warrior's mind. _'That said, it would be a great deal easier to deter them if you had another at your elbow...?'_ That the warrior dances willingly with another at all speaks volumes. Consideringly, she measures See Aymeric's character, comfortable that he may see her request for what it is.

"Ser Aymeric, pray forgive the impropriety given our relation has been strictly that of friendship over the course of our acquaintance, however I must ask. Would you consider playacting my paramour?"

Aymeric, a dancer lauded as grace incarnate, stumbles. His misplaced step places his leg atwixt hers, a staggering impropriety, and he flinches back to correct their sudden closeness. Her hand at his back arrests his retreat, her approving murmur at odds with the years of strict etiquette screaming in his ear.

"Just so, you're a natural already. Does this mean you'll play along, my Lord Commander?"

Protests rise and die in his throat, silver tongue tarnished in the face of her sincere request. The prospect is shamefully tempting - to claim the right to her side as he so desires, but under the guise of falsehood. Steeling himself, he resumes their proper distance, seeking the words to express himself.

"Why me? You have your choice of suitors, all in earnest." _Is Ishgard's society so distasteful to you, that you seek to subvert courtship so?_ His voice falters at the last, unsure if he can bear the truth were she to disavow his attentions entirely. Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she gazes at him with glimmering eyes.

"I trust you, Ser Aymeric. I've no peace to call my own with their hounding, despite the lengths I've gone to procuring Ishgard's current halcyon days."

Her words seal his lips, her need greater than his worldly desires. As the music around them swells and fades, the prelude to the next set, he lifts her hand. Lips press to her knuckles in professed devotion.

"As you will, my lady. Consider me at your disposal."

Days pass under their new arrangement. The Borel carriage arrives at Manor Fortemps more nights than not. For the parties they have been mutually invited to they travel together, taking pains to be seen arriving and departing hand in hand. And, as anticipated, their ruse is a grand success.

No longer do the hoards of unattached swarm the warrior at every turn - the ambushes as she goes about her business halted entirely. Instead she tends to her errands with Ser Aymeric at her side. Rather than risk an absence giving rise to rumor that will see her hounded once more, they strategize outings together. As for the parties themselves, the two spend them comfortably enmeshed - fetching each other snacks and drinks and declining all other offers to dance save for with each other.

The warrior of light looks forward to such nights. Always steady, Ser Aymeric never imposes - inquiring carefully after her health after a careless sneeze, bundling her up with extra care afterwards. Or when she slips on black ice, his hands catch her with preternatural grace - as though he had watched her more keenly than she watches out for herself.

Tataru is the first of the warrior's friends to comment, her sly grin dimming on receipt of the true situation. Her disappointment that the affair is merely a misdirection stings, biting uncomfortably close to the warrior's heart.

Her time with Aymeric quickly becomes the highlight of the warrior's night. She looks forward to the quiet moments they spend together - taking a turn around the gardens or tucked into the private corners of a ball. With so much time in close proximity, she begins to pick up on the man behind the diplomatic mask. From which petit fours are his favorite (savory salé with a bite of meat within) to the subtle crinkling of his eyes when hiding amusement, she finds herself eagerly seeking personal discoveries about Vicomte Borel.

On a night like many others, as Starlight season begins to rise over Ishgard, disaster strikes.

From the moment she meets him at Manor Fortemps, all those secret tidbits scream loud as klaxons that _something is awry_. His hand lingers as he welcomes her to the carriage for that night's ball, as he is wont to do, only to flinch away the moment she gains her seat. She peers into the dim light of the carriage, eyes straining to make out the Elezen's expression as he perches on the bench across from her - his legs withdrawn from their usual placement mid-carriage where they may chance to jostle against hers. She can tell he looks out at the city, rather than seek her gaze and conversation as he has so many times before. His glossy locks shimmer as they pass the lit lamps lining Ishgard's more traveled paths, drawing her eye inexorably to their lush beauty.

"Is aught amiss, Aymeric?"

Familiarity dictates she drop his titles when in private, an insistence on his part, though they maintain the charade of propriety in public to Society's exacting standards.

She receives only the barest glance at her words, a dismissive wave and reassurance that all is well from the voice she suddenly craves to hear - his dulcet tone's absence unbearable. Attempting to engage him in conversation yields little, and she begins the ball in befuddled confusion. He maintains the image of their exclusivity, dancing and raining attention upon her, however the moment he can withdraw he does - leaving her chill in the absence of his familiar touch. As the ball draws to a close and guests begin their stream to the carriages outside, she plays a dangerous gambit.

"Take a turn in the garden with me."

She seizes his arm in escort, aiming for the privacy of greenery where they'll not be overheard. Nerves kindled over the night of withdrawn touch and silence buzz beneath her skin, itching with the inexorable sense something is terribly wrong. Spotting the bench she remembers, tucked in a grand elm's shadow and discovered on a past outing with Ser Aymeric, she draws him to her and _stares_.

"Please, Aymeric, tell me what is amiss. If I have given offense, pray share the means that we may mend it."

His lungs expand in a deep breath, settling himself.

"I can no longer continue this charade."

The warrior's eyes widen, stricken, heart plunging to her boots. Pulse drumming in her ears, his next words are difficult to parse.

"You may consider me a friend and ally, always, but I can no longer continue our ruse in good faith."

Whetting her lips, the warrior steps forward, seizing his lapel as though to prevent his escape. To hold on to some part of him, her heart thumping painfully for all that their playacting was meant to be false.

" _Why_." Her demand is scarcely a whisper.

He smiles serenely in the moonlit garden, Ishgard's crisp air lending his cheeks a reddened hue. Gentle hands cup her chin, his attention fully on her for the first time this evening - fully tuned to her as a flower is to the sun.

"I love you, warrior of light. I have loved you since before you proposed the ruse to keep your peace. And I, a fool, thought I could keep myself content with such a relation. I cannot, greedy, miserable thing that I am, and so I must break my word to you and withdraw."

_May Halone have mercy on me._

Speechless, the warrior stares at him, her fingers gone numb in the face of his honest admission. He waits for a response, and finding none, releases her. His bootsteps echo in her ears as he departs, her breath blurring her vision in white mist. Or is it tears, that warp her sight - a steady flow of moisture cutting across her cheeks, bright streams of pain as the ishgardian chill bites at the offered weakness.

Somehow, she finds her way home, to Manor Fortemps. Tataru descends with warm blankets and hot chocolate at the sight of the warrior's tear-streaked face. Minutes pass as the fireplace attempts to warm her, a shard of ice at her core preventing such mundane treatment.

"Now what's all this? You look as though you've lost someone." Tataru bustles about the drawing room, arranging the plushest cushions around her friend. Hiccuping sobs begin, shaking the warrior with their intensity.

"I might well have. Aymeric... Aymeric broke off the deception."

Acknowledging his dismissal out loud cuts at her heart, suddenly keen on preserving their many evenings together - their companionable pastimes arm in arm.

"He-he said he _loves_ me, Tataru. And that, he couldn't - _wouldn't_ continue the ruse."

"Well that's wonderful news! Whyever are you sobbing like he's broken your heart, then?"

The warrior's gaze snaps to Tataru, hurt in her eyes at her friend's cruel joy. Tataru's eyes widen at the sight and she comes in for a hug. Fussing until the warrior is thoroughly ensconced in blankets and pillows alike, the Scion's task mistress cuts to the point.

"Oh, my dear, you didn't tell him you love him back?"

 _Love?_ The word rattles around the warrior's head, clicking into place as she recognizes the feeling for what it is. Days spent with Aymeric's company as the highlight. Bells upon bells thinking of books and conversation to enjoy with him. Dread settles in the warrior's stomach as she realizes the fullness of her blunder.

"Oh Tataru--", she moans, throwing herself on the lalafell. "I've made the gravest error. No, I did not declare for him and now he may wish no part of me."

Tataru giggles as she catches her friend. Head canting curiously at the reaction, the warrior eyes Tataru with a seed of hope.

"My dear, if he is not presently a bottle deep in those wines of his I've heard so much about, I will eat my hat. _Go to him_ and share your feelings, that he may know his affection is returned. Much better than moping about here, at any rate."

Grinning delightedly in the warmth of the hearth, Tataru bundles the warrior into more respectable clothes for a housecall and summons the Manor carriage.

"And no delays! Straight to Manor Borel, my dear. I'll have my linkpearl if you need a ride sent to fetch you home."

The lalafell's supreme confidence that no ride will be necessary heartens the warrior - that perhaps her mistake is not the star shattering event her heart insists it is. Head spinning, hope taking root, she waves to Tataru as the carriage departs. Stone cobbles clack under the wheels, nighttime Ishgard a blur as her mind lingers under the elm tree - intent on dissecting every moment, every hint of expression Aymeric offered her. All too soon, the carriage rumbles to a halt, the coachman escorting her down to the street.

Manor Borel looms before her, a modest noble's residence compared to the Pillar of Ishgard she homes at. Screwing her courage together, she strides forward, knocking sharply at the polished wood door. Moments pass, each as weighty as a hammer blow, her pulse racing.

The door creaks open, spilling light onto the street, and her heart pounds to a crescendo.

"My friend?" Aymeric's voice is as tousled as his untidy locks, a band of red across his ears and nose attesting to Tataru's astute estimation. His hand is steady as he invites her within, however, a host's etiquette requiring she be sheltered from the cold posthaste.

"Aymeric, may we speak?"

His lips firm as he considers his response, the heat from his third glass of wine lending him rare recklessness. He beckons her down the hall to his study - well lit and warm from the roaring hearth. His open bottle and singular glass wait on the side table, his evening's activity laid bare. The shame he expects to feel does not emerge, however, his attention thoroughly ensnared by the way the firelight's reflection dances on the warrior's clothes. Different, than what she had worn for the ball. Attire for comfort and conversation rather than the well-tailored peacocking Society requires. Keeping his tongue penned, he gestures to the open armchair, claiming his seat opposite.

"I wanted to speak of your declaration earlier tonight - to cut the ruse from your own feelings surmounting the act."

His ears ache. Were they flexible as a miqo'te's they would doubtlessly prick forward - keenly interested in the woman's words before him. She inhales, drawing her courage to her like a cloak.

"I am here to declare my own intent. That I-I love you, Aymeric. I've fallen for you in a thousand thousand ways, over our association, and I beg you not to cut me out - that we may continue our relations _in earnest_ this time. Not as a ruse but as open courtship."

Dumbfounded, speechless, as he has only been a handful of times in his life, Aymeric stares. Hope blooms wildly in his heart to choke him, words insufficient for the volume of _adoration_ he feels. So, he acts instead.

Reaching forward, he takes the warrior's hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss anything but chaste. Lips rove from nail to knuckle, worshipping her in every wordless way he knows. When he finishes, breath unsteady, he glances up to find her similarly indisposed. The sight of her so affected grants him the boldness for his next ardent declaration.

"I would be most honored to pursue you in truth, dear friend. Know that you are welcome to all of me - that my heart has ever been yours."

Stomach swooping as though in flight, the warrior searches his face and finds it openly honest. Every tell she's learned, every moment of study reassuring her of his earnestness. That his heart is hers - she needs only reach out to claim him.

Hinging forward, her steps silent on the plush carpet adorning the Lord Commander's personal study, she leans in to meet him for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> My second attempt at a Regency AU! I hope the tone hits well :)  
> A very merry holiday season to everyone and best wishes for a happy 2021!
> 
> Thanks as always to the [Bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/PvbG45u) for their infectious enthusiasm <3  
> If you're interested in chatting with FFXIV fic readers and writers alike, feel free to click the discord link and join in!


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